


Exodus

by HonouraryWomanofLetters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, Canon Compliant, Fallen Angels, Gen, M/M, Post Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HonouraryWomanofLetters/pseuds/HonouraryWomanofLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You came off the line with a crack in your chassis." As an angel, this made him useful. As a human, it made him broken.</p>
<p>Directly following the events of Season 8, Castiel finds himself in a position to make several choices.<br/>With a king in chains, a new queen on the rise, fallen angels locked out of their home, and conflicting memories skewing everyone's perception, Team Free Will may be in over it's head and hurtling towards the End just as Sam unknowingly predicted. What would it take to turn this around? A visit from a long lost father may just give Castiel a clue where to start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exodus

**Author's Note:**

> This will hopefully be a fairly long fic, and will try to resolve a lot of the mysteries that season 8 plagued me with.

Prologue

The air felt thicker than it used to. The weight of it crushed around him, inescapable. A millennia and a handful before of being able to slice though the atmosphere, through various dimensions in a matter of moments, and now the air felt so thick Castiel wasn’t sure he’d ever move from this spot. Surely if he lifted his arm, the pressure would break it in half.

It was an absurd notion. Castiel had already traveled a considerable distance, walking and using public transport, unable to lift a wing to quicken the journey. But now that the bunker, the home of the Winchester’s, _Dean’s home_ , lay before him, but a few steps down, he found himself incapable of forward motion.

If he did, if he managed to lift his foot, move forward, lift his hand, knock…he’d be assuming his place in their lives. He’d be asking for shelter, for acceptance, for _family_. But he had just watched his family burn up the night sky.  Castiel had long ago accepted that his life was divided between two realms, a family that he couldn’t be with and one that he was bound to whether he wanted to be or not. And now he was suddenly unbound, any tethers forged by grace, duty, and kinship burned away like so many paper lanterns. Castiel had wondered, after the lights had finished falling from the Heavens, if he might find land scorched with the ashes of his siblings wings, as far and wide as the eye can see, like when he had played god and decimated a sunny Tuesday in heaven. But there was nothing, no sign that their grace had ever existed. The wings had just burnt up, gone. As Castiel began to move, dazedly, towards nothing at all, he swore he could still feel the weight of his own wings, could almost swear that they must still be there, but when he’d grasped over his shoulder, his hand had simply clutched the cloth of Jimmy’s much abused overcoat, the fabric thin and brittle against the brisk chill of the May evening.  Still, Castiel could swear he could feel them, the weight too real, the tingle too familiar as they fluttered behind him as he moved. It was as if they existed as they always had to humans; there, but insubstantial, unreachable, beyond the planes of this particular reality. But this was the only reality Castiel could access now, and so he could not say if what he was experiencing was any more than how a human might experience a phantom limb. _But maybe the human perception is limited._ Castiel wondered absurdly if perhaps humans really were feeling their lost limbs, as they existed in an alternate reality where they were still attached. He supposed it could be true for some of them, those more tuned into their extra senses. But Castiel did not feel tuned into anything.

It _hurt_ in a way Castiel wasn’t quite sure he could ever be able to explain. He felt suddenly limited, suddenly closed off and vulnerable but at the same time perceptive to things he had never noticed before. The thrum that ran through his vessel, the ever present connection to the Host was missing; it was like the waves of pure _existence_ that had always rolled over him in a kaleidoscope of knowledge and peace and the millions of thoughts and prayers and rages to the heavens that had always connected him to humanity just as it had to his siblings was gone, and he suddenly found himself alone. But he also knew things that he hadn’t before. Suddenly, he could feel the unsteadiness of the ground beneath his cheap dress shoes, the rocks digging into his soles and the twigs and branches rolling beneath his stride. He suddenly knew that silence had a sound, that it was eerie and cathartic all at the same time. He felt a _chill,_ nearly cold, and his hands were numb, and he realized that he had nothing to rely on to tell him where he was or which way to go, no instinctual orientation based on an intrinsic understanding of the shape and composition of the earth to guide him. He still knew exactly where every river in every country in every continent started and ended, knew the mountain ranges of the distinct ridges of the Rockies over the Alpine, had named them to himself for centuries, and yet only now was he aware of how oppressing similar so much of the world was. Yes, he knew a pine from a birch from a maple, but he realized that this would not help him to find a road. Castiel was floundering, cut off from his family, his friends, and now his sense of direction. And it was quiet, so painfully quiet, he felt as if it might suffocate him. The air was too thin, too insubstantial, and it was so _quiet_. His instincts, born of a familiarity with creation that no mortal could comprehend were entirely inaccessible, and it somehow eased his frustration to bring a hand to his hair and grasp it firmly, enraged and confused at his own circumstance. He had not thought to make this motion, but as he pulled back on his hair and forced his head back and eyes up, he suddenly found himself looking up at the sky, remembering the clues that were hidden in creation to orient the humans, who were not able to simply tune into the vast supply of knowing that angels had accessible. North, he was facing north. And from the moss growing on the trees around him, civilization was to his right. The panic that he hadn’t realized had been festering began to ebb, and he had a goal again. Reach the road. _Find Dean_.

He repeated the mantra in his head, trying to fill the vast emptiness of his mind with it, so that he could be full again, so that his body might thrum with knowledge and peace again. That was not how human thoughts worked. Castiel remembered how he could think of everything at once, be aware of everything simultaneously and still be present. How he hadn’t bothered to let his thoughts form words before, but rather let them remain a collection of pure knowledge and emotion. As an angel, there was no language that could express all the things that had made up the vast incomprehensibility of the Host and creation, and so they didn’t bother. They used Enochian to communicate with one another, but there were no words in Enochian or any human language to explain all of what _grace_ was, all of what creation was. Castiel could now only comprehend it as an endless sea, all colour to represent the things that words couldn’t. Now, he found himself alone in his mind, and it was his own voice, channeled through his vessel that his thoughts rang out in.

_Reach the road. Find Dean._ The mantra gave him directive, so like his order from only several years ago. Find Dean. _Find the Righteous Man_. Bring him back. And Castiel had, because he had been required to, because Heaven had needed him to, and Dean had as well. Dean had always needed him.

It was this thought that had Castiel frozen outside of the bunker, now early morning, the air too thick to allow him to move.  Dean had always needed him. And now. Now Castiel couldn’t help him, there was nothing for him to be needed for. This was not the same as falling, as he had when they had hunted the devil. This was not simply a matter of recharging. He realized, for the first time in his existence, that he was utterly and completely useless, devoid of purpose, defective and disregardable. To the Winchesters, he’d be nothing but a burden. _You came off the line with a crack in your chassis_. As an angel, this made him useful. As a human, it made him broken.

This revelation is what turned him around. He picked his feet off the cement, one and then the other, until he was moving briskly away from the bunker, away from the family he had no right to, the love he had no claim on, and the home he had no place in.

 

Chapter 1

In a park in Kansas, a young girl, no more than 10 years in appearance, laid in a shallow body-sized crater, the earth loose and hot around her. She was staring up at the stars, gone still by now, amber eyes dim as she sang quietly to herself. The world looked huge to her from here, all trees and sky above her, and beneath her hand she could feel how soft the earth was. A brave ant skittered across her fingers and paused. The girl kept her hand carefully still but rolled the rest of her body onto its side, tucking her knees to her chest for warmth, her simple white dress not quite covering her pale toes. Beneath her blond head she laid her other hand, and if not for the strange setting she may seem a simple child drifting to sleep.

But she did not close her eyes. She trained them on the timid insect, and whispered, her voice soft and sweet, “I am as you are now.”

 

*

In the Men of Letters bunker, Dean was dead. Yupp, definitely dead. The good kind of dead, where you just float off into unconsciousness and there’s no heaven to replay your greatest hits or hell to screw you over with them. He wasn’t sure he could have a conscious thought if he tried.

Of course, just as that sentiment entered his mind, his consciousness was flooded with reality. He had hauled Sam and their not-quite demon king hostage back to headquarters, having decided that they’d really rather be far away and inconspicuous when the fallen angels came to. Dean honestly couldn’t take anymore houseguests, and he had a feeling several thousand fallen angels was beyond their bunkers maximum occupancy rate.

Sam had been all aghast about the latest development in their chain of messed-up, way too excitable for someone who was suffering from a bad case of _trial interruptus_. He was full of “what do we do”s and “how do we help?”s and “Dean seriously but this spells disaster aren’t you going to at least freak out with me?”

The worst though, was Sam’s “where’s Cas? The angels are fallen, so where’s Cas? He gotta come home Dean.”

Dean couldn’t even bring himself to mentally agree with Sam. It was like something shut off in him when he even came near the topic of _Cas_. So for now, he didn’t. Stayed far away in fact.

Apparently, he had more than enough to occupy himself with in place of _Cas Cas Cas_.

Crowley had been passed out in the back of Impala (which Dean was seriously uncomfortable with and why in the world _couldn’t_ they throw him in the trunk?), a bag thrown over his head just in case, and when they reached the bunker Dean had the unpleasant task of hauling him inside and past a startled Kevin, who had been pacing around the map room. He had called frantically when the sky (and apparently their table) had lit up with activity, and was gesturing rapidly as Dean entered the room, apparently unsure how to reconcile his panic over all the supernatural weirdness and his anger that when he’d finally gotten rid of Crowley from his ass, the Winchesters had decided to bring Crowley right to him.

“Out, Dean, I am out! I am so out, I don’t even know why I’m still in—”

Dean cut him off, “You are going to go out to the car and help Sam in, I’m going to lock _him_ up nice and tight,” he said, jostling the still unconscious Crowley with his shoulder, “And you are going to drink more of my bourbon and go to sleep. Got that?” He didn’t wait for a reply as he continued to half drag, half carry the dead weight through the halls.

His only luck, he thought, as he finished securing Crowley in their dungeon, was that the asshole had stayed unconscious for the trip. Dean really didn’t think he could handle a heart-to-heart with the demon right now.

Kevin had done as he was told, to the T, actually. Sammy was passed out on his bed, apparently even the excitement of the fallen angels and the pain of the incomplete trial not being enough to overcome the exhaustion of trying to cure a demon like Crowley. Dean checked his temperature, warmer than it should have been, but not dangerous, and put a glass of water beside his bed before exiting the room, knowing there was nothing more he could do for Sam right now, and his brother needed the sleep.

Kevin himself was lounging in an armchair in the library, sipping away at Dean’s bourbon and looking about ready to either vomit, run, or pass out. Dean grabbed a glass and poured himself a drink, before falling into a second armchair.

Dean counted his luck again that Kevin probably hated him enough to not make talking an issue. They drank in silence until Kevin got up, maybe a minute, maybe an hour later, handing Dean the bottle in silent comradery and heading down the hall to a room they’d assigned him. Dean slouched down further and shut his eyes, then squeezed them tighter as he tried desperately to not see the falling night sky behind his eyelid, awash with light as heaven itself fell to the ground. _The sky is falling, the sky is falling_ he thought humourlessly as he drifted back into nothing. Dead nothing.

 

*

Castiel found himself drawn to a Biggersons, of all places. It was not quite 11 in the morning, and the dining room was packed with regulars, eating pancakes and eggs and bacon, and all chatting excitedly with anyone who would participate. For a moment, as Castiel sat down and ordered a coffee from a distracted waitress named Tia, he was bemused by the seemingly random break in regular social behaviour of humans, until he caught a snippet of conversation exchanged at the tables next to him.

“A freak meteor shower, that’s what the paper’s called it!” a plump women insisted around her nodding companion to the man at the next table.

“No no,” said the balding man as he waved a piece of pancake around on his fork like a baton. “My son’s going to school to be an astronomer, and he called me just this morning and said it wasn’t no meteor shower that he’s ever seen tell of. Isn’t that right Marge? No meteor shower we ever heard of!” The man’s wife looked positively on edge as she whispered dramatically to the two ladies at the next table, “Not a meteor shower, no, you know what that was don’t you? Aliens. They’re making contact. You’ll see soon enough, people will be going missing and UFOs will be landing all over the place!” She glanced around conspiratorially, as if a little green man might be lurking behind of fake plant.

She caught Castiel’s eye, apparently he’d been watching them a little too blatantly, and mistook his raised eyebrow for interest in her theory. She beckoned him closer, and he glanced around for an escape route before deciding this was the most painless path. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to be aware of the tide of public opinion on a matter so integral to himself.

He turned his body towards his neighbours, making a point to open his posture as he man across from him did, one arm on the table and the other slung over the seat back. He had never been so aware of his own rigidness until he was actually able to feel the strain of sitting perfectly upright. And he didn’t want to risk suspicion of his own alien nature.

“Roswell,” the women said, nodding her head meaningfully. “They’ve known about this for years. They’ve got to cover it up with meteor showers or else their cover is blown! The American people will know they’ve been lied to, and that’ll mean big problems, won’t it?” She was looking expectantly at Castiel, so he lowered his brows and nodded briefly, trying to seem interested.

The women’s husband interrupted then, “It’s all gotta be hush-hush, I mean they can’t exactly expect them aliens to be as friendly as E.T. now can they?” He laughed gruffly, but Castiel found himself pushing up from his chair and heading for the door of the restaurant almost before he could think about what he was doing. All he knew is that he didn’t want to talk to these people who called his family aliens in a restaurant where he had been forced to hide out for months until he’d caused a building full of people to be slaughtered, hearing more about an E.T. that left a sharp pang in his very human heart for completely unknowable reasons.

He had walked several blocks before he found himself in a park, a little swing set and slide being occupied by small children and their guardians. He walked a small distance away and sat down on a bench by the adorning open field, and folded his hand together between his knees, bowing his head low over them, a mockery of prayer.

He was aimless. His feet hurt and his back ached and his mind felt like a very loud silent prison, causing his head to pound ceaselessly. He realized with a shaky exhale that he was _exhausted,_ and that the pain in his stomach must mean he’s hungry, the dryness of his mouth indicating thirst. He realized with exasperation at himself that even if he had stuck around at the diner, he had no money to pay for anything, and no wings with which to disappear on. Frustration building, he quietly spoke aloud to himself, to relieve the oppressive prison of his mind crushing in around him.

“I think I must be more lost than I’ve ever been.”

“I’d pretty much hope so,” said a voice from over his shoulder.

The voice was familiar, slightly nasally, and affectionate. As if the speaker were addressing an old friend they’d been planning to meet here. Castiel lifted his head slowly, already knowing who he was going to see, and yet not understanding, his human mind resisting his urges for it to speed up, to make sense of this quicker.

“Chuck.”

As Castiel gaped at the smaller man who strode out in front of him, cocking his head to the side with furrowed brows and his mouth slightly open, Chuck rocked back on his heels, hands shoved into the white pockets of his white suit, and gave Cas a sheepish smile. He lifted a hand from his pocket and gave Cas a brief wave as he said, “Heya, Castiel, you got a minute?”

And suddenly, without knowing how he came to this conclusion, without being able to rely on grace or even previously acquired knowledge, only human instinct, Castiel understood.

And so he promptly stood up and punched God in the nose.      

                


End file.
